Tempests
by Grim Lupine
Summary: Whatever else you might say about Finny, about his dreamer’s impracticality, about his curious self-absorption that is charming in its innocence, he’s no idiot. Even he can’t miss what’s right in front of his eyes. //oneshot// //FinnyGene//


Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

Notes: Written for my friend Alex's birthday. I'm only, oh, about four months later than I promised. XD I am such a terrible friend. Also, it's about 1:30 in the morning for me right now when I'm posting this, so if I messed something up, please let me know. XD

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They live so close together it's impossible to be silent—it's always obvious what they're doing, just one of those things they politely decide to ignore. Late night, it's hazy, dream-like; Gene lies in his bed and listens to Finny's half-stifled groans and moving hands. He closes his eyes, curls his hands into fists at his sides. He can hear the slick noise of skin on skin, the rhythmic creaking of the bed.

Finny is as near silent as he can ever get, but Gene still hears his ragged breathing as loudly as if it were sounding in his ear. He's stiff, and his blood is rushing in his ears. But he won't touch himself, not when the only thing he would think of, the only thing he could _possibly_ think of is Finny and his laughter-bright eyes, his golden skin. If Gene thinks about it too much there is the very real possibility that he might slide into Finny's bed next to him and press his mouth to the vulnerable curve of Finny's neck. He wants to taste skin, he wants to pull some of the otherworldly beauty from Finny's trembling body and take it into himself.

Finny chokes out a fervent, "_Christ_," and the bed's squeaking finally settles. Finny's breathing quickly evens out into sleep. Gene lies awake for what feels like hours, gritting his teeth against the urge to stroke himself, trembling against the killing heat inside him he barely understands.

Sleep comes slowly for Gene.

*

Morning is deceptively mild, like the strained-around-the-edges smile with which Gene faces Finny. Finny is bright and oblivious, asks cheerfully, "Sleep well, pal?"

Gene feels the weary circles beneath his eyes like bruises. He says shortly, "No. Nightmares," and heads out the door before he can voice the words rattling around in his bones—_Your smile doesn't leave me alone even in my dreams.  
_  
All day there's an uneasy itching inside his skin, an unsettling restlessness that makes him want to _move_, go for a run, jump out of the tree. Finny leans across his desk in the middle of English, falls into Gene's space like he has no concept of boundaries—which, being Finny, he _doesn't_; Gene is Finny's best friend, and thus is merely an extension of him, and boundaries have no value between them. For a half-crazed moment Gene wonders if that policy extends further; if in the dark of night Gene were to listen for Finny's breathless noises and steal into his bed, would Finny make room for him with no surprise, nothing but a welcoming touch and a look that says _What took you so long?  
_  
Gene's fingers white-knuckle against the edges of his desk. Finny doesn't notice; he whispers, "Hey Gene, are you learning anything right now? Personally I think they pick these books on purpose. Their goal isn't _really_ our learning; they're trying to bog us down in the driest stuff they can possibly give us so we have nothing left in our brains to cause trouble with. It's a conspiracy, see." His grin is bright, dimpled at the edges, an invitation to join him in collusion against those stuffy old men who see fit to restrict boys' natural inclination for trouble; for Finny, there is perhaps no greater sin. Trouble is what gives life its meaning.

"It doesn't matter why they pick these books, they're what we have to read to do well," Gene says shortly and settles back in his seat, ignoring Finny's exaggerated look of disappointment at Gene's lack of support. Finny opens his mouth to interrupt Gene's concentration again, _jesus_ can't he leave Gene _alone_?—already he's taken over Gene's dreams and most of his free waking thoughts, now he's creeping in on Gene's studies, the one refuge he has from the all-too-large entity that is Phineas. "Can you just—pay attention?" he whispers, aware that his voice is too sharp for the easy conversation Finny thinks they're having, but unable to _stop_, "Isn't it enough that—"

And there, mercifully, he does stop. Doesn't let the next words tumble from his mouth, whatever they may be--_isn't it enough that I dream of your hands and your mouth, that I wake and still can't get rid of the part of me that wonders what you'd taste like? Must you follow me into this one part that's managed to remain separate from you?  
_  
His breathing sounds a little ragged to his own ears. Phineas eyes him, then leans back in his chair. "All right, pal," he says bemusedly, a little concernedly. He doesn't say anything for the rest of class, but it's too late. Gene spends the rest of the hour staring straight ahead at the front of the room, all-too-aware of Finny at his side. He doesn't hear a word of the lesson, but that's only to be expected.

That's Finny's effect, after all. He burns so bright, takes up so much room with his laugh and his idealism, his fucking sunshine smile, there's nothing that can touch him, nothing that can brush away the mark he leaves.

Absolutely nothing at all.

*

Whatever else you might say about Finny, about his dreamer's impracticality, about his curious self-absorption that is charming in its innocence, he's no idiot. Even he can't miss what's right in front of his eyes.

Gene is tired, tired, so goddamn _tired_ of hiding himself away, policing his every reaction. He's never been all that good at it; at least, not with Finny, who can go through life cheerfully blind to the subtleties of people's interactions, except for the moment when he sees with piercing insight every last thing Gene wishes were hidden.

"It's going to rain now, Gene, look outside. Doesn't that just make you want to go outside and run in it?" Finny asks one afternoon when they're studying, or trying to, at least. The air is sticky with humidity, with the coming storm, and Finny's eyes are lit-up green with excitement, mouth parted a little and skin damp with heat, hair curling lightly at the nape of his neck, and Gene is not quick enough to keep his eyes away. Not strong enough.

After all this, ruined by a pending rainfall.

Finny catches Gene's eyes, dragging molasses-slow over his body before they jerk up quick and guilty, and Phineas's own eyes widen slightly with sudden comprehension.

"Oh," he says, just that, nothing more than a half-breathed word that nonetheless makes Gene's skin prickle with apprehension and the kind of ashamed lust that he can't shake off.

"Finny," Gene croaks out, voice dry and hoarse. He stops. What is there to say, god_damn_it, what the hell can he say to fix this whole mess?

He waits on his bed, books spread around him, trembling a little; some of that's relief, strangely enough, because now it's all out. It's all out in the open, every last thought that's been driving Gene absolutely mad, and now all that's left is to see what Finny does.

A small, perverse part of Gene wonders if this isn't some sort of a test he himself has unconsciously devised—to see if, finally, this one thing will drive Finny away. To see exactly how much he might mean to Phineas, who everybody wants and who never seems to need anyone in return.

"Is that all, then," Finny says quietly, each word dropping like a stone in the soupy-thick air, and Gene doesn't know how but suddenly he's only inches away, eyes crinkled with laughter at the corners, like he has a joke he's just itching to share. "Is that what's been bothering you all this time?"

Gene stares helplessly, wordless. He licks his suddenly dry lips, and feels Phineas's eyes drop down to track the slow drag of his tongue, feels it like a physical caress. "What do you mean, is that all?" he asks, sitting up properly and knocking his books to the ground. This _thing_ that's been eating at him for _months_, and Finny just waves it away casually, dismissively, like Gene shouldn't have even—like he shouldn't have even worried at all.

Like he should have _known_.

Finny's smiling at him now, wide and open and dimpled, and he tucks a hand around the back of Gene's neck and draws him closer, closer, until their lips are almost touching and Gene can practically feel Finny's words buzzing against his mouth.

"You worry too much," Finny murmurs. "There's plenty of things you worry about, but I shouldn't ever be one of them." And just like that he kisses Gene. The inside of his mouth is wet and tastes like pleasure. It tastes like the chocolate Finny had been eating in place of his dinner, and Gene makes a broken noise in the back of his throat. He feels broken, all of him, his fears and his thoughts and conceptions all lying shattered on the floor. Finny's putting him back together again with his quick, clever hands, but it won't be the same as Gene was before.

Is it better? Gene doesn't know, can't be sure, and it's the not being sure that scares him a little, but also sends a little thrill down his spine—this part of him he's leaving in Finny's hands, and it's up to Finny to take care of it. Take care of _them_.

"It's a good thing you have me around, pal," Finny says, teasing. "Or you'd be stuck in your own head all the time. Some things you don't have to think about so much."

_Teach me how_, Gene doesn't say. _Teach me how to stop thinking and just _ do.

Like he heard him, like he's hearing all the things Gene can't and won't say, Finny laughs a low breathless little laugh—strangely devoid of amusement, like he's laughing just because he _feels_ so much—and kisses Gene again, fingers sliding under Gene's shirt to stroke his stomach, the edges of his hips. Time passes in strange flashes, like lightning, bursts of feeling—Finny's teeth pressing lightly against the thin skin at Gene's jaw; Gene's hands running down Finny's spine, skating over each and every knob, lingering like he's learning him by touch.

Thunder roars outside, booms through the open window and shakes up their bones in its fury. Finny gasps quietly into Gene's ear, mouth damp and panting against Gene's skin. "Storm's here," he says, and the sky cracks loudly again, as if in answer. Gene is hardly surprised that Finny controls the weather as easily as he does everything else.

When the rain finally comes, the air tastes suddenly crisp and cool; outside the sound is a steady drumming that settles into Gene's chest, pressing but not oppressive.

Finny falls asleep with his face pressed against Gene's neck, hair plastered to his flushed face, stomach and thighs still sticky with their release. He looks young when asleep, aside from his pink swollen mouth that tells the story of what they have just done.

Gene watches him until his own eyelids start to fall, until he feels weariness take hold of him. He tugs the sheet up around their waists and lets himself drop off, thinking _Storm's here. No going back from this_.

Everything's changed now. Whether or not it's for the better can only be determined by time.

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End file.
